Homecoming
by Knightfall1138
Summary: A prequel to 28 Weeks Later, the story follows Colonel Jeremy Doyle as he witnesses the devastation caused by the RAGE virus spreading to the east coast of the United States.
1. Day 3: Infection

* * *

"Homecoming"

Chapter One - Day 3: Infection

* * *

People gathered around a television shop as the words "SPECIAL REPORT" began to scroll across the screens. It was a newscast from Britain, so it hardly slowed the pedestrian traffic in Manhattan. Those who did stop found security footage from a chemical testing facility and home videos of riots throughout the streets of small towns. 

_"No one knows who started this uproar, but sources believe that it may have started purely as an animal rights protest. Nevertheless, these random acts of violence have the scientific community unsettled. Some are calling for a quarantine of the—"_

Dana Ryder was standing near the back of the crowd, just barely making out the static between the unmoving heads. Not even able to hear the report now, she gave up all together and started walking again.

"Hey!" A familiar voice called behind her.

"Persistent, are we?" Dana turned around to find Jeremy Doyle standing behind her. His face was radiant and he held a rose in his hand.

"For you, milady." Doyle politely handed over the rose.

Dana was honestly flattered. It had been months since she was in a steady relationship. Even then, she never got flowers.

"You're not just doing this because you're getting shipped out soon, are you?" Dana asked.

"What? No way. You have the wrong idea about the army. Been watching too many episodes of Law and Order."

"What kind of idea should I have then, Sergeant?"

"Give me two hours. That's all I ask." Doyle was more than willing to get down on his knees.

"Okay, okay. Two hours. I'm timing you." She tapped her watch jokingly.

Doyle led her to his car and they set off down the street.

_"More and more eyewitnesses are connecting these riots to some sort of biological infection, but no further evidence can be given at this time…"_

--

Doyle drove Dana out into the country. It was springtime, and the fields were coming back to life to a full, green color. The skies were almost empty, save for a plane in the distance just off the coast. He thought this would be the best time to flip the top on his car down. It's all about procedure, Doyle thought.

"Now you're just trying to show off." Dana said, laughing at the top being slowly folded up.

"Don't know what you're talking about." Doyle feigned ignorance.

"You don't have an explanation for a lot of the things you do, I've noticed."

"I'm just typically spontaneous I guess."

Three days earlier, Doyle had gone to a bar with a bunch of his army buddies. Halfway into a brew, he swiveled around in his seat just in time to see Dana walk in through the front door. She whipped her long, brown hair out of her face just like in those weird hair color commercials.

_Girl of your dreams_, his mind kept telling him. Without noticing, he had already made his way through the tables and was face to face with the girl.

"Can I help you?" Dana asked, somewhat freaked out.

"Huh?" Doyle popped back into reality. "Oh! Hi…"

"Hi…" She sidestepped around him and made her way to the bar.

Great going, Doyle. He flipped around and chased after the girl.

"Wait." He said.

She stopped and seemed a bit scared by Doyle's persistence.

"I'm Doyle…Jeremy Doyle." He offered his hand. "Sergeant Jeremy Doyle…"

"Alright…" She shook his hand. "Nice to meet you Doyle."

"Sorry for spooking you. Just…not very good at talking to girls."

"You're a sergeant and you can't talk to girls?"

"Yeah…" Doyle felt like he was in a tail spin. Come on, think of something. "Can I buy you a drink?" Smooth. He wanted to smack himself in the head.

"Sure." She agreed reluctantly. Faintly intrigued by the Doyle's clumsiness.

From there they had drink after drink and revealed their life stories to each other. Doyle and his joining the army after the attacks and Dana spoke of her fascinating days as a secretary to a very wealthy clothes designer.

"His stuff his hideous but no one has the heart to tell him." Dana snickered.

"He must be funny to look at." Doyle said.

"Extremely." Dana slapped Doyle's leg. "It was nishhh to meet…" She spun her finger around and tapped Boyle on the nose. "…you."

Ah, crap. Drunk, Doyle thought.

After she finished her last beer, Doyle helped her to a taxi.

"You get a good night's sleep okay?" Doyle said, paying the taxi driver for the ride. He closed the door and waved to her through the window.

She waved back and mouthed words that Doyle was convinced were "I love you."

Since that day, it wasn't hard finding her around town, now that he knew where to look. Around the designer's business. It was by coincidence that he found her at the television shop that day. A great coincidence. He wanted to marry that woman.

"So how long are you on leave?" Dana asked, holding her hand out of the car and into the wind.

"A few more weeks. But we could always just keep driving on until we hit Canada. I wouldn't have to get shipped out and you wouldn't have to answer another phone call."

"That would be a great day."

"You know, if you're not to busy later on this evening, maybe we could—"

"Jesus!" Dana yelled, her finger flung up towards the coast. "Do you see that?!"

Doyle alternated his focus between the road and the direction she was pointing. About a thousand feet over the water, the large commercial airliner was violently rocking back and forth and getting closer and closer to sea level.

"Shit…" Doyle tried to find his cell phone. "It might be ditching."

There was a small farm near a field. The family was standing on their front lawn watching the plane, which was now beginning to climb drastically.

"No, no, no, what's it doing?" Doyle watched as the plane tilted up and away from the water. Just high enough to make it onto land. "What the fuck is he doing?"

"He might be trying to land it in that field."

"The landing gear isn't even down!"

The plane suddenly sped up towards the coast and tilted sideways. Its wing hidden by the cliff.

"Hold on!" Doyle yelled and slammed on the brakes. The plane's wing slammed into the side of the rocks and whipped around onto flat ground. The engines screamed and fire shot out from the exhaust. Doyle swerved out of the way of the wing, still sliding along the ground towards the car. Dana was almost knocked out of her seat when the vehicle hit the ditches in the field.

The rest of the airplane barely missed the roof of the farmhouse and slammed into the field just behind it. The fuselage didn't explode like everyone thought it would, but there were still mini pops of the fuel lines rupturing. The aircraft settled into the field, the engine still whirling away, kicking up a dust cloud that enveloped the farm.

"Are you alright?!" Doyle asked his passenger. He looked over her to see if she had any injuries. "Oh, my God, I can't believe that just happened."

Dana sat upright and peered over the crash site. The emergency hatch of the plane popped open and the inflatable slide hissed into existence.

"What do we do?" Dana asked, still in a bit of shock.

"Let's get to that farm house."

The two jumped out through the open top and ran towards the family, who were still on the front lawn. They could hear the group screaming at each other about what they should do.

"Hey, over there!" Doyle called out as they approached.

A man in his mid-fifties jogged over to meet the pair.

"We got a mess over here, mister."

"I know." Doyle began. "I have to use your phone, sir. I'm in the army; I can get the necessary personnel over here quickly."

"My wife already called 911 just a minute ago."

"If its alright, I'd like to try and get a hold of my people. There's a base not too far from here."

The farmer, sweating and shaking from nervousness, slightly nodded his head in approval.

Doyle turned to Dana. "Can you try and keep them calm while I make this call. I'll just be right in there if you need me."

Dana stared off towards the plane.

"Dana! Stay with me."

She snapped back into focus.

"Can you keep them calm for me?"

"Y—Yeah."

"Alright." Doyle kissed her on the forehead and ran into the farmhouse. He threw open the screen door and stumbled across the living room. There were was a hamper of clothes in front of him and towels were folded all over the floor. He looked on every wall for a phone cord before making his way into the kitchen. It was smaller and tidier than the last room. No phone. He moved on to the back laundry room. There was an old fashioned phone with the rotary dial.

"Finally." He picked up the receiver and started spinning the number to his base. The back window was dirty. He wiped off some of the dust and found a somewhat obstructed view of the crash. From what he could tell, there were many people beginning to exit the plane. They bounced down the inflatable slide and began running as fast as they could across the field towards the farmhouse. He was relieved that there were so many survivors.

The operator on the other end of the phone picked up.

"Hello?!" Doyle yelled into the receiver. "This is Sergeant Jeremy Doyle. I have a civilian seven-forty-seven ditched in the field next to my position."

_"Do you know your location?"_

"Can't tell you for sure. Trace this call."

The operator went silent for a minute. _"Okay, Sergeant, we have a fix on your position. We'll be sending a medical helicopter to those coordinates immediately."_

"Roger that. I'll do what I can here until it gets here."

Doyle set down the receiver and looked back out of the window. There was still a steady stream of people making their way off of the plane. That's when he heard a scream from the front yard. He turned around for a brief second before turning back out the window.

A short-haired man stared back at him. Skin pale, coagulate blood covering his mouth and blood-red eyes staring without a blink. He punched through the window and began to scream at the top of his lungs.

Doyle jumped back in surprise. "Sir, are you all ri—"

The man grabbed onto the broken window and began to pull himself through. Eyes still fixed on Boyle and blood beginning to stream from his hands.

"Jesus…" Doyle began to back up and out of the laundry room. As the man made his way in through the window, there was a loud bang against the back door. Over and over again someone slammed against it trying to get it open.

Doyle ran. As he neared the end of the kitchen, he was tackled from behind. The man had latched himself onto Doyle's legs and was pulling himself up towards his face.

"Get the fuck off me!" Doyle began to kick at the man but he never faltered. Screaming and blood dripping from his mouth, the man continued to get a grip on Doyle's face.

Out of the corner of his eye, Doyle spotted a meat mallet in a milk crate. He slid across the floor, still kicking at the man, and grabbed the mallet. He brought it around with full force at the man's temple. After he seemed to shrug it off, Doyle struck him again and again until he finally fell limp.

Doyle heard the screams from the front yard again. He pushed the man off of him and slammed his way through the screen door, which almost came off its hinges.

Outside, most of the family had been tackled by the passengers. The bloodied survivors began to bite and scratch and vomit blood onto the family. Further down the street, Dana was running down the yellow line. Blood was dripping down her legs and her shoes were gone. Doyle turned back to the family. They were no longer struggling with the passengers; they began to go into convulsions. Their heads shook wildly and blood began to spew from their mouths as well.

All at once, the passengers and the family looked towards Doyle. Their eyes now reddened.

Doyle looked to the farmer, not knowing quite what to ask. "Are you alright, sir?"

The farmer leapt to his feet, hissing and screaming, and began running towards Doyle.

Doyle began to run after Dana. His heart was beating fast. Out in the field, the last of the passengers exited the plane, they all ran in different directions. The ones who caught sight of Doyle ran towards him.

"Dana!" Doyle yelled. She looked back but didn't stop running. He eventually caught up to her and gripped her hand. "Come on!"

She was out of breath and beginning to stumble on the pavement. Doyle pulled her along, seeing that around twenty of the red-eyed passengers and the farmhouse family were giving chase.

"We have to make it to that truck!" Doyle spotted another farmhouse just up the road. There was an old Ford sitting in the front driveway. He had no second thoughts about stealing it.

The driver's side door was unlocked. Doyle hopped in. No keys, he knew how to hotwire a vehicle though. It would just take time that they didn't have. He leaned over to unlock the passenger side door for Dana.

She began to open the door when a woman came running out the front door of the house. She tackled Dana into the side of the truck. "Doyle!" She screamed.

"Dana!" Doyle jumped out of the truck and ran around to help her. The woman began to spit up blood over Dana's face as she struggled. It tasted almost metallic in her mouth.

Doyle delivered a bone-shattering kick to the red-eyed woman. She fell and began to twitch on the ground.

"Dana, are you okay? We have to go!"

Dana coughed. She began to groan and scream in pain. Tears ran from her eyes as Doyle tried to hold her still. "I'm burning!" She yelled and began shaking her head around. Her hair flipped all over the place and her eyes began to turn a crimson red.

"No…" Doyle backed away from Dana, having just seen the same thing happen to the family. Dana hissed and scratched her way along the truck, eyes fixed on Doyle.

He ran back around the driver's door and whipped it open, blocking Dana from getting a clear shot at him. As he locked himself in, Dana was pressing herself up against the glass and trying to break it in. The passengers finally reached the truck and began to leap into the bed. They bashed on the truck's cab looking for any way in.

"Come on, you bastard!" Doyle fought with the ignition wires until he finally heard the engine turn over. He flipped the transmission in drive and slammed on the gas. The tires screeched behind him. The passengers tumbled off of the truck, hit the ground and resumed their pursuit once again.

Doyle looked in his rear-view mirror and saw bare-footed Dana running down the middle of the street in his direction. He didn't know what to do or think. He just kept driving, hoping he'd make it to the base.

When Dana screamed his name, it was the first time in his life he felt truly helpless. The engine revved. His eyes welted up in tears. And a tall column of smoke was now rising from the plane in the distance…


	2. Day 8: Epidemic

* * *

"Homecoming"

Chapter Two - Day 8: Epidemic

* * *

The sun was coming up over the coast, shooing away the mist that covered the fields around the base. The front gates had been barricaded with various crates loaded down with sand. Armed guards walked along the perimeter, an honest eye looking out towards the fields. 

In the radio room, the operator sat, always tensed. Just waiting for the incoming static to fade into a sliver of hope every now and then. It was only the previous day that they got word that the riots around New York were, in fact, a biological contaminant. That's what they were calling it. The words "apocalypse" and "end of the world" were being used by the soldiers to describe the current state of affairs.

"Just be glad we're not in England right now," the commanding officers would reassure them. They had lost almost all contact with the island across the pond. Cargo ships loaded with refugees were found drifting towards Manhattan. Most of the ships were "extinguished" on account of their infected cargo. Other than that, it was only silence in the air waves.

From the reports they were receiving from around the east coast, the incidents were pretty isolated. The infected didn't have a chance of spreading in most places. "Thank God for the second amendment." Most of the infected were shot dead before they could do much damage. Yet, the threat was not immediately extinguishable. Blockades were being thrown up everywhere, made up of soldiers and militia to keep the lines from being thin, but some were still being overrun apparently. "These are dark days that fall upon us," the President would muse over the radio. "Dark days that will test our strength as a unified species." Unified species, indeed. The next day the embargos were ratified and a naval quarantine of the waters around the east coast began. The eastern hemisphere was dead to the United States at this time.

The barracks were typically quiet as the men rested for the nights, but now, they were always bustling. Most of the soldiers couldn't sleep more than an hour. They began to subconsciously sleep in shifts. Each one that was awake eyed the horizon for the boogie man.

Doyle was fast asleep. Deep inside a nightmare. That image of Dana, infected and bleeding from her mouth, was etched into his mind. In most of his dreams, she would actually catch up with him when he tried to run.

"Hey!" Damion kicked at Doyle's bunk to wake him up. "Get out of that nightmare and join us in this one."

Doyle shot up and nearly hit his head on the bar of the top bunk. He began to breathe heavily.

"Same dream?" Damion asked. Doyle had told him of the incident involving his girlfriend while they were on the perimeter the day before.

"Same damn one," Doyle caught his breath. He stood up and began to put on his uniform.

"That wasn't your fault, ya know?"

"I'd like to think that," he buttoned up his coat. "But it's hard to convince myself that when it happened at arm's length."

"It could have happened a mile away and you'd still be beating yourself up. I know you." Damion pointed. He had known Doyle since high school and all through basic training. He wasn't lying when he said that.

"Anything today?" Doyle changed the subject.

"No calls. No anything. Either the other units have everything under control or there aren't any units left. Either way, we're sitting on our hand at the moment."

"Hooah."

The two walked through the base. They noticed that the boxes at the front gates were being replaced with two hummers. Just as heavy, but easily movable if something happens. Good thinking, Doyle thought. He had noticed that the commanders hadn't yet come to grips that the problem was going to be on their front doorstep before long. The perimeter guards and the boxes had only recently been put in place. Even now, they still swear by their rifles that the infection isn't _that_ much of a problem. He wagered that every commander who said such a thing slept with a gun under their pillow.

He swore by his rifle that they did.

"Those walls are closin' in on us," Damion sighed, watching the men park the hummers in front of the gate without coordination. They were constantly coming within inches of each other as they did.

"Yes they are. I don't care how close they get, but I hope they do their job," Doyle replied.

"Amen, brother."

The hummers knocked bumpers before finally being put in place. The drivers walked away from the vehicles, ashamed at the scraped paint job.

Doyle and Damion made a 180 when they heard the radio room door burst open. The operator sprinted out the door with a piece of paper and ran to the commanders' quarters.

"What do you reckon?" Damion asked.

"Bad news, I assume," Doyle began to walk back towards the barracks to get his gear ready.

--

"Our destination is the city of Troy!" the commander shouted above the diesel engine of the transport. "We received a distress signal that indicates that a few people with the disease were spotted running around town. Don't know how many we'll actually be dealing with once we get there."

The soldiers bounced around in their seats, not given a vehicle with particularly great suspension. Doyle held his rifle horizontal vertical, pointed up towards the canvas roof. The butt of the gun tapped against the metal flooring as they bounced along.

The commander continued. "The town is small. Really small. It won't take long to make a full sweep of the place, so look sharp, troops."

"Hooah!" the soldiers hollered in unison.

"Alright."

There was nervousness abound. The men had been issued gas masks to wear during their sweeps of the town, but they were considered an obstruction since they didn't offer a good field of vision. The infected moved very quickly according to intelligence.

"Are we shooting to kill?" a soldier raised his hand.

"What was that?" the commander turned an ear towards the man.

"I asked if we've been given the kill order, sir."

"R.O.E., boys. Don't fire unless it's in self-defense. Things may be bad, but they're still people. As far as I'm concerned they're just contagious sickies," the commander reached into a container and pulled out a stack of surgical masks. "Goggles on as well," he said as he passed out the masks to the soldiers.

The truck screeched to a halt.

"This is our stop!" the commander ushered everyone off of the truck. "Go! Go! Go!"

The troopers piled out of the truck and into an empty town square. They were dumbfounded. There's the kind of empty that's seen at night when no one is about, then there is the kind of empty that the soldiers were staring into. Papers littered the roundabout, the road that circled a giant statue of a man on a horse. Cars were parked in the middle of the street, doors still hanging open, and a few had the engines still running. The shops were emptied. No one was outside. It was an eerie feeling to say the least.

"Any movement?" Doyle called out to the rest of the troops. If the commander wasn't around, then he was in charge.

"No, sir," a soldier was using the scope to scan the windows.

"Second platoon, scout the street at three o' clock," Doyle signaled the "go" order.

The group of five soldiers carefully moved towards the entrance to the street leading out of the square to the right. One trooper planted himself at the corner of a building and leaned around the edge. He made a signal to Doyle, nothing.

"Let's move up."

Once the rest of the unit reached the platoon, they joined up and began to search the street.

"Speak up loud and proud if anyone sees anything," Doyle ordered. "Even if it's a cat."

"I got this suspicious lookin' paper over here, Sergeant," one of the men joked.

"Street lamp over here," another joined in.

"I think this bush is signaling intent, Sergeant. Requesting permission to interrogate."

They have to joke. They have to, Doyle reasoned. They really have no idea what they're looking for. If they had seen what I saw that day…

"Doyle," Damion pointed up to the second floor of a pharmacy. "Top floor, ten o' clock."

The group saw the movement and a slight thumping in the distance. Doyle brought the rifle up and peered through his scope at the window.

"Jesus…" Doyle saw a blonde-haired girl being pressed up against the window. Her arms flailed around as she attempted the break the glass. A large amount of blood shot all over her face and the window. She fell to the ground, revealing a shadowy figure. Doyle could make out the red eyes.

"Heat 'em up!" Doyle ordered.

Damion loaded a small grenade into the launcher on his rifle. He took aim at the window and pulled the trigger. The smoke line curved towards the window and a small amount of glass trickled down onto the pavement.

"Take cover!"

The unit ducked behind an alley just before they heard the explosion. Flaming pieces of wood and rubble flew through the sky and slammed into the street below.

"What about the rules of engagement, sir?" a soldier asked, holding his weapon close.

"I don't know about you," Damion spoke up, "but I heard a gunshot." He believed the stories that Doyle had told. Without a doubt. He knew he had just given that girl the peace of mercy.

"I heard it," the soldiers began to say one by one.

"Yeah, same here."

"I heard it too, boss."

After the debris stopped falling, the men moved out from the alley. The top floor of the pharmacy was gone.

"Let's go make sure that there aren't any infected over at the bar," Damion laughed.

"Maybe another time," Doyle replied. "There's no one here anymore. We'll be defenseless if we go deeper into town." He made a signal back towards the town square. "Back to the transport."

A man burst through the glass of a nearby shop and threw himself onto Damion. Right away, they were on the ground. The man began to scratch and bite at his armor, but wasn't able to reach flesh.

"Get him the hell off me!" Damion screamed. The men already had a grip on the man's tattered shirt. They pulled him off their fellow soldier and harshly threw him aside.

One of the soldiers tried to talks some sense into the man. "Take it easy, sir."

Almost at the same time, Doyle yelled out, "Fire!"

Their guns lit up and the infected man was slammed back against the wall. He fell dead on the sidewalk.

"Move! Double time!" Doyle began to jog with the men towards the square. As they reached the statue, they heard a very loud cacophony of screams and shouts. From the opposite street, a crowd of people that spanned the width of the street was rapidly moving towards them.

He remembered the city limits sign at the entrance of the town that read: The City of Troy. Population 2,000.

"Damn it all," Doyle muttered to himself. "Get moving! Now!" He began to fire into the crowd without any specific target. He knew that some of his shots had hit, but almost none of the infected fell to the ground.

The men launched themselves into the trucks. Doyle was the last one in, the transport was already moving without him. The other soldiers in the truck pulled him in safely. The convoy turned around just in time to move out of the mob's clutches.

The square was filled with bloodied people.

--

They made it back to base safely, just as the sun began to set in the distance. After the trucks entered, the hummers were put back in place to block the gate.

The commander ran out of the truck and into the radio room to report the event to command. The rest of the men were in a state of unrest for the remainder of the night. And for good reason.

It was near midnight, Doyle and Damion walked the perimeter. Most of the men who were awake were walking the perimeter.

In the distance, out of range of their spotlights, they heard the same screams that they had heard coming from the infected crowd.

"Did they follow us back?" Damion asked, beginning to breathe a little harder.

"It's gonna be a long night, my friend," Doyle replied solemnly.

They kept the sirens silent.


	3. Day 15: Evacuation

* * *

"Homecoming"

Chapter Three - Day 15: Evacuation

* * *

The chain-link fence that made up the gate was bent out of shape. The two hummers that held them in place were dented and scratched. The outside of the metal perimeter was covered in blood. The charred bodies were a testament to the soldiers' knowledge of biohazard disposal. No one wanted to go outside and bury the infected dead. They didn't know exactly how it spread and they certainly didn't want to discover exactly how through trial and error. 

The skies were still blue, yet they were marred by the pillars of smoke rising from nearby cities and blockades. The soldiers had a rough week. That was a given. But things seemed to be looking up for the rest of the country. It was confirmed that the infection wasn't spreading west as many thought it would. Too much open land, they said. The crazies would get disoriented, picked off by patrolling helicopters or die by the elements. Good thing, Doyle thought. They only had half the nation to worry about…

Alarms and sirens were prohibited in the base. The commanders worried that they might act as an invitation to any infected within hearing range. Instead, soldiers perched on the perimeter would wave a large flag around on the side where infected were spotted. A neat system, but it didn't get the soldiers to the fence as fast as a siren would have.

Supplies were running low. Convoys didn't dare to attempt to make a push through the area, and the soldiers of the base were in no rush to attempt either. But if something didn't happen soon to remedy their shortage, then they'd _have _to leave. No question.

Contributing to the blockade. That's what the troopers thought they were doing and that's why they had no desire to leave immediately. Every infected killed was another life saved down the line.

Doyle peered through the binoculars and out to the north of the base. A mushroom of smoke appeared. Three more began to rise along side it before the sound of the explosion was heard.

"What the hell are they doing?" Doyle whispered to himself. A few seconds later, a formation of fighter jets came into sight from the direction of the smoke. They shrieked overhead and disappeared into the distance.

--

"Bad news, ladies," the commander stood atop one of the hummers and spoke to crowd of soldiers. He referred a piece of paper on a clipboard. "We are now officially riding in the danger zone. The air force just began bombing the surrounding areas to drive the sickos down towards Manhattan."

"Why Manhattan, sir?" a soldier raised his hand.

"Commerce. Why else?" The crowd laughed off their uncertainty. They had no better reason to laugh lately. "Back to what I was saying, those explosions are going to drive every blood-spewing mother in our direction. Come nightfall, we're gonna have our hands full to put it lightly. Case and point, we're not needed here any longer. So we're evacuating."

Everyone began to shake their heads. The idea of going outside didn't sit well with them.

"Don't worry, you pansies. We have air-support enroute. If all goes according to plan, then our angels should be coming in over that fence just as soon as hell decides to pay us a visit."

--

For the rest of the day, the men began to gather what was left of the supplies: weapons, ammunition and the rest of the food. The vehicles were going to be useless when the helicopters showed up, so they were used to brace any weak spots in the metal perimeter. "We'll be out of here before those buggers ever get near us," the commanders would reiterate over and over again. Doyle could see right through them. They were just as nervous as the rest of the unit. The thought that the air support wouldn't get to them before the infected did terrified them. For the past week, they had been fighting any groups that strayed off into the country, not a concentrated lot that was being pushed towards them.

As the sun began to sink behind the horizon, the lookouts were frantically scanning the lighted parts of the sky for the choppers. Before nightfall, that's what they said. Their hopes began to dim with the fading light. The stars were out now, and there wasn't even a transponder blip on their radar.

"They supposed to be this late?" Damion asked Doyle as they sat on the perimeter wall. The commander had ordered all of the lights turned out and to have small groups sit on the walls with night vision goggles.

"We should have been on a chopper an hour ago," Doyle looked out over the field. "I'm guessing they hit a snag."

"A snag, eh? I guess we're boned then. A snag these days means—"

"I know, man. Just try not to think about it. If you start panicking then I'm pushing you over the wall."

"Screw you," Damion chuckled. "If we get swarmed, I'ma feed you to them so I can get away."

"Glad you think so highly of me."

"Your mom thinks highly of me too."

Doyle leaned over and pretended to push Damion over the edge. The two laughed. "Your life's in my hands, bitch."

"I'm just gonna jump off myself then."

The snap of a twig breaking shut them up in a hurry.

"Hear that?" Doyle began to search the field frantically.

"Might have been a bird, huh?" Damion switched on his night vision as well.

"Might have been something else, too."

"Hope you're wrong," whispered Damion. "I just wanted to get out of here without firing my weapon for one night at least."

Doyle looked back towards the base. None of the other perimeter guards were signaling anything. The night was quiet once again. Maybe Damion was right about that bird, Doyle assured himself. The rustle of the grass began to intensify.

"Turning into a windy night," Doyle pointed out. "Gonna be hard to hear things now."

Damion pulled off one of his gloves and held his bare hand up into the air. He quickly replaced the glove. "It ain't windy, Doyle." He pulled out his flashlight and clicked it on and off towards the guards in the base. Everyone began to silently move to their positions. The guards on the perimeter began to lower themselves down.

Turning back to the field briefly before descending the wall, Doyle caught a glimpse of a very large group of people. They were hunched over and tensed up and walking at a very rapid pace. Their eyes glowed like headlights in the infrared.

The whole base was quiet. No one wanted to move or breathe for that matter. They were silent enough so that the footsteps outside the base could be heard throughout.

"Do we fire?" asked Damion in Doyle's ear.

Doyle shook his head. "We just want them to pass us by."

The soldiers of the base sat nervously for several minutes. Every now and then they would hear growls and hisses from the other side of the wall. The men would pass looks of fright and confusion to each other as the footsteps continued on. Before long, the crickets in the field began to chirp once again and the rustle of the grass faded into the distance.

Everyone took a breath of relief.

"I think I pissed myself," came a voice from a corner of the base. The men laughed as quietly as they could. They all wanted to erupt and laugh away the harsh reality of things—but they couldn't.

Flashlights began to switch on.

The commander walked across saying the same thing over and over to each of the men so he wouldn't have to yell it. "Keep quiet and prep for evac."

One of the soldiers walked over to the hummers by the gate. He wanted to siphon the rest of the gasoline out of the tanks before the choppers came. Gas might be hard to come by, he thought.

As he approached the gate, he heard the chain-link fence moving. He switched on his flashlight and shined in the direction of the movement. One of the guards positioned near the gate had been pulled up against it. His mouth was covered by a small arm reaching through a chink in the fence. The guard's eyes were beginning to turn red and roll back into his head and his arm was pulled through another gap. It was being chewed on viciously by a red-eyed teenage boy on the other side.

"Shit!" the soldier yelled. He pulled out his gun and fired a single round. It penetrated through the guard and into the boy, killing both. The gunshot echoed through the night sky.

"Who the hell did that?!" the commander yelled out.

That's when the wave of screams filled the air. They had heard it. The ground began to vibrate under the infected mob's movement.

"Prepare to engage!" the commander ran through the base and made sure everyone was in their positions.

The walls had thus far been able to withstand the abuse of any infected groups that attacked the base. Because of this, most of the soldiers took positions near the gate and on the walls next to the gate.

Doyle and Damion got up on the walls with their rifles.

"Snipers, are they close?" the commander called to the two.

Doyle flipped on his night vision and found the field full of shining eyes. Thousands. The scene looked liked the very star-filled night sky they sat under. "Yes, sir, we have incoming!" he called back.

The infected ran at full steam towards the gate, their screams intensifying as they did. As they slammed into the gate and the walls, Doyle and Damion almost lost their balance.

Right away, anyone who had a clear shot opened fire. Bodies fell, but not easily. Most shook off their wounds and continued to attack the gate and the walls. To Doyle, they seemed almost desperate to get inside and shred the unit to pieces.

"We can't possibly attract more attention, sir!" Damion yelled.

"Alright then," the commander responded. "Hit the lights!"

The spotlight clapped on and brought the horror into full view.

"No way we can hold all of them off!" Damion panicked.

"We have to!" Doyle said. "We don't have any other option."

The dead had begun to pile up at the gate and the other infected were using them as stepping stools to reach the top of the gate.

One of the other men on the wall pulled out a grenade and dropped it just below him into the crowd.

"No! No grenades!" Doyle saw he was too late and turned away from that direction.

The grenade exploded, sending blood and debris all over the wall. The soldier who had thrown the grenade began to rub his eye as if something had gotten in it. He began to shake and rubbed his eye harder. Not able to control himself anymore, he toppled over the wall and into the crowd. A minute later, he was pressed up against the gate trying to get in. Hissing and scratching along with the others.

"What happened?!" Damion asked.

"Blood in his eye," Doyle didn't look up from the scope of his rifle. Every bullet counted. Headshots whenever he could. Every bullet counted...

The gate began to bend out of place. It wasn't going to last long.

"If they break through," the commander yelled to the men, "run to the barracks and lock yourselves in!"

That won't work, Doyle thought. They would bust through those cheap metal walls as if they were made of paper.

"I guess we'll be perched up here for a while then," Damion tried to joke. He fired another shot.

Everyone was so focused on the gate that they didn't notice the two transport helicopters slowly lowering themselves into the base.

Doyle looked over and saw their angels. "Halleluiah," he said. "Let's get the hell out of here." He and Damion jumped off of the wall and made their way towards the choppers.

As the men abandoned their posts to run to the transports, the infected were able to attack the gate in full force now.

A man helped Doyle and Damion aboard the chopper. They felt free now. Free from this hell.

The gate broke and the mob began to push their way into the base. Their sights set on the helicopters.

A few of the soldiers had fallen behind. The helicopters began to lift off without them.

"Wait!" Damion yelled to the pilot. "We still have men down there!"

The pilot ignored him and continued to pull back on the controls.

"Help me, Doyle," Damion began to lean out of the door to offer a hand to the soldiers. Doyle grabbed his friends hand and helped him lean out as far as he could.

Two of the men tripped over each other and were consumed by the mob. The last straggler jumped up and grabbed Damion's hand.

"Pull me in!" the soldier screamed. "Pull me in!"

"Hold up," Damion strained to pull the man in. He felt his shoulder being pulled tighter. The infected had grabbed onto the dangling soldier. They pulled him back towards the ground.

Damion was abruptly pulled through the door. The soldier screamed as he was pulled into the crowd. Damion loosened his grip and let the soldier go.

"Doyle!" Damion yelled. "I lost him."

"Get him back inside!" the pilot shouted to Doyle. "We're off balance!"

Another infected leapt up out of the crowd and now had grip on Damion.

"No! Doyle!" Hundreds of hands grabbed his uniform and began to pull him down.

Doyle grabbed onto the handrails inside the door of the helicopter with his other hand. His face turned red as he fought to save his friend's life. The other soldiers in the cabin all gripped Doyle to ensure that he too was not pulled out.

"Damion!" Doyle fought to keep his grip on Damion's hand.

The helicopter gained more elevation.

Doyle felt his shoulder pop out of its socket. The pain consumed him. The last thing he remembered before blacking out from the pain was Damion's fingers slipping out from his glove.


	4. Day 20: Devastation

* * *

"Homecoming"

Chapter Four - Day 20: Devastation

* * *

They promised Doyle that when he got better, he'd have a front row seat to the devastation. He wasn't completely sure of what they were talking about because staying conscious was difficult. The doctors weren't sure if his docile state was on account of his injury or if the sleep was relaxing. Either way, for nearly four days, he slept. 

The dreams were the only downside to the extended rest period. Just as sleeping in the barracks brought out horrible images in his mind, the isolation of his bed in the hospital permitted his mind to wander. One night he relived a fishing trip that he had taken during basic training. Doyle, Harold Flynn and Damion rented a boat and went out on a lake near the base. Their commanding officers had decided to give the platoon that Sunday off for "good behavior" and fishing was the first thing that popped into the three friends' mind.

Their lures had been bobbing in the water for nearly two hours. Damion had actually felt the tug of a bite on the line, but he didn't bother to pull it in. He didn't really come all the way out here to do much of anything. None of them did. It was the relaxation and the ambiance of the trip that made it appealing.

"One more week, eh?" Doyle was almost falling asleep in his seat. His fisherman's hat blocking the sun from piercing his eyes.

"Yep," Damion swiveled around in his seat and flicked his fishing rod. "Just like high school, man. Wanted out from day one, but now I don't want to leave."

"I'm ready to get out. Need the cash to start rolling in," Flynn reeled in his line and cast it out again. He didn't add more bait.

"Decided on whether or not you're gonna be flying, Flynn?" Doyle asked.

"Yep, I'll be in a chopper by the end of the month," Flynn replied.

"Is that your final answer?"

"Already put in my papers. They're sending me off to Fort Campbell in Kentucky after all is said and done."

"The wife doesn't mind you being up in the air?"

"She understands. Been wanting to fly since I was little. Best chance I'm gonna get."

"Well, here's to you," Doyle raised a half-empty beer can.

"To Flynn!" Damion laughed as he lifted up his beer.

'Ah, shut up," Flynn smiled.

The three let silence fall over their boat once again.

This trip was the last time they were all together. It was also the last really happy moment that Doyle could remember. The sad part was seeing Damion's face again. The bad part was when the dream shifted and the boat tipped over, throwing Damion into the water. Doyle and Flynn casually leaned over to help him back into the boat, laughing hysterically as they did. Then hundreds of pale hands would reach out of the water and drag Damion's head down under, the bubbles surfacing above him. The sick part was that Doyle found himself still laughing even as his friend was drowning.

Doyle woke up and threw up into a pan by his bed; gasping for breath afterwards. Why the hell did I dream that?

--

Doyle's room in the hospital had a small balcony with a cheap plastic chair by the railing. He looked around at his view and felt relived to be back in the city. They buildings seemed barren and the only vehicles below were of the military sort. Across the Hudson River, he could see Manhattan. The island was dark and seemed like it was covered in a shadow. To him, it looked a lot like a scene out of "Escape from New York."

The nurse came in after a while and was astonished that Doyle was out of bed. She explained to him that his commanding officers would be in shortly to explain what would be happening tonight. Sure enough, just as the clock struck 8 o' clock, a few generals walked in. Doyle hadn't put on his clothes and was still walking around his room in the hospital gown. The first thing the officers spotted upon entering was his bare rear end.

"Sergeant Jeremy Doyle?" a general asked.

Doyle turned around to face the officers. He saluted in his gown. "Yes, sir."

The officers saluted back. "At ease." They escorted Doyle to the balcony and began to explain the situation in detail.

"In the next few hours, you will be hearing a series of explosions. Much like those you heard and saw near your outpost."

"You really are driving them to Manhattan?" Doyle asked.

"Yes, we are. It's the only place that can contain all of the infected persons long enough for us to begin our strikes."

"Strikes?" Doyle laughed. "You're gonna level the island?"

"We don't like it any more than you do, but this is our best chance to save the remaining population. If all goes according to plan, we will be wiping out eighty-nine percent of the infected this night. The rest can be easily picked off by our airborne divisions."

"I don't believe this," he turned back to his view of Manhattan. "I trust that the island is emptied."

"We've been evacuating for the past week. The only reason there would be people still there is if they're hiding."

Of course there are people in hiding. Doyle sighed. Some of the people on that island are about to lose everything they have anyways. Why not go down with the ship?

"We hope you'll be back to assist us with the 'clean-up', Sergeant," one of the officers said to Doyle as they exited the room.

--

The bridges were the first to be hit when midnight rolled around. They groaned and cried their twisted-metal songs as they fell into the river.

Would he help with the clean-up? He didn't know for certain. If it ended with the world turning in peace for a few more years, then yes he would. But now, he couldn't think.

The bombers made a pass over the island before swinging around. The firebombs lit up the island. The concussion pounded in his ears with every burst and the walls of the hospital jumped. Buildings fell and everything burned.

Underneath the explosions, he heard the infected screaming. Their cries rang out all at once. Such hate, Doyle thought. He began to pity them. They weren't like this by choice. The disease only spread through the innocent. Now, instead of finding a cure, we were bombing one of our own cities to get rid of a problem that we created. Science starts with a man asking questions.

His mind trailed off to Dana being infected only three feet away from him and Damion's hand slipping out of his glove.

The pity he felt for the infected was gone. He hated them now. Completely.

"Burn, you bastards," Doyle whispered towards the island.


	5. 28 Days Later

* * *

"Homecoming"

Chapter Five - 28 Days Later…

* * *

"It looks like we have targets to the north, Doyle," Flynn spoke into the intercom as the helicopter rose into the air. "You in?" 

"In like Flynn," Doyle loaded a clip into his rifle and cocked it back.

The chopper made a quick pass over Manhattan. Ash still blocked most of the destruction from view but orange glows still indicated that fires were still burning. It was a necessary loss, Doyle convinced himself

There were three other riflemen in the chopper beside Doyle. He was quick to learn their names but stopped there. He didn't want to know them. Connections were severed far too often in this line of work.

"Doyle, right?" Danny was his name. He kept on chewing a wad of gum as he smiled at Doyle.

"Yeah. Danny, right?" Doyle played along. Danny nodded his head. "You're Zack?" Zach nodded. "And you're George?"

"Yep," George confirmed. He held his rifle tight against his stomach as if he was using it as a shield.

"Don't get all riled up. We'll be up here and they'll be up here," Doyle reassured George. "You lost someone?"

"My sister," George said. "She was at school when…"

"Keep that out of your mind, alright?" Doyle needed everyone firing straight. A nervous sniper equaled wasted shots. "Did you two lose someone?"

"My grandparents," Zack held back tears.

"My dad," Danny said.

"Alright then. We're all in the same boat," Doyle said. "Relax and keep them out of your minds. You'll be saving lives by doing so."

"Hooah," the three said in unison.

--

"What are you seeing, Flynn?" Doyle asked through the intercom.

"I have a group of seven coming up at two o' clock," Flynn replied.

"Good to see you're eyes are still in working order. What with your choice in women and all."

"You mean my wife?"

"I mean, I understand why you wanted to go overseas now," Doyle laughed.

"Screw you, Doyle,"

"That's what you're wife said."

"I'm gonna shoot you out that damn door if you don't let off," Flynn knew Doyle was joking. For some reason, his wife was always the target of his jokes. He didn't let it get to him though.

"Alright, family man. I'm opening the door now, don't shoot me out of it," Doyle pulled back on the latch and slid the door open. Down below in the grassy hills, he spotted a small group of people frantically running in no particular direction. He looked into his scope to see their faces.

"This is the United States Army. Stop where you are or we will be forced to fire upon you," Flynn's words echoed through the loud speaker. The group didn't stop. "I repeat," he was told to repeat the message twice, "stop where you are or we will be forced to…"

"Forget it, Flynn," Doyle interrupted. "They've got the red eye going on down there."

"Roger that, Doyle," Flynn clicked on the radio. "Delta Charlie, Delta Charlie, this is Helo 42, we are about to engage a group of infected at coordinates twenty-three alpha. Copy?"

_"Roger that, Helo 42. You have permission to engage,"_ the woman over the radio replied.

"All clear, Doyle. Take the shots."

Doyle motioned to the other riflemen. "Front and center."

"Yes, sir," they responded. Danny inched up next to Doyle while George and Zack opened the door on the other side of the chopper.

"Take your shot, Private," Doyle said calmly.

Danny smiled through his bubble gum. It was obvious that he thought of himself as a hotshot in the business. He raised his rifle and looked through his scope. Through his sights, he aligned the crosshairs over the head of the nearest infected.

"Take the shot," Doyle ordered.

"I got it, _sir,_" Danny replied smugly. He looked back into the scope, but he still didn't fire.

"I told you to take the shot, Private."

"And I told you that I got it, sir."

"What did you say?"

"You heard me," Danny kept on chewing on his gum. Rifle still aimed to fire, but no gunshot.

Doyle raised up his rifle and, barely looking through the scope, fired off a shot. The infected's head exploded and threw pink mist the air.

"Christ!" Danny jumped in surprise. "What the hell?!"

Doyle pointed his rifle at Danny. "What is that you're holding, _Private_?!"

"Wh—What?!"

"What the _hell_ are you holding?!"

"My…My rifle…"

"What are you without you're rifle?!" Doyle didn't blink. The barrel of his rifle slowly made its way up to Danny's head.

"I…I.."

"You're what?!"

"I'm…I'm nothing…"

"Correct. You _are_ nothing! If you're gonna sit there and be nothing while those things live to kill another day, then you are useless to me. To everyone. You'd be no better than the infected. So maybe I should just hand you over to them!"

"No!" Danny was shivering. "No, please!"

"Then take the _fucking _shot!"

Danny pulled up his gun again. After spitting out his gum, he took aim at one of the infected. He fired and the man below fell.

The rest of the unit, along with Doyle, began to pick off the group. One by one.

"Threat neutralized, Delta Charlie," Flynn spoke into the radio. "Returning to base."

--

Flynn found Doyle in the equipment room putting away his gear. "Doyle!"

"What's up?" Doyle closed and locked his locker.

"What the hell was that up there?"

"With Danny? Ah, he'll get over it."

"That wasn't just a scare tactic, Doyle, and you know it," Flynn calmed down. "You've changed, man. And not for the better."

"People change. It's as natural as breathing."

"So you're not gonna tell me what happened out there? At the outpost? You guys are the Alamo of the twenty-first century and you haven't said a word about it."

"Nothing to talk about," Doyle began to walk out the door, but Flynn cut him off.

"It ain't nothing. Now, are you gonna tell me or am I gonna have to go to command, cause I'll be damned if you pull that crap in the air in my chopper again."

"It was Damion," Doyle blurted out.

"I heard about it. I'm the one who called his family about it."

"I killed him, Flynn. I killed him."

"What?! Don't be stupid."

"I had him. They were pulling him down and I dropped him. I could've held on…but…" Tears welted up in Doyle's eyes.

"You held on as long as I could. There was nothing more you could have done."

"No…No, I couldn't have because I…" Doyle punched the side of a nearby locker. "…I fucking blacked out!" He slid down onto the ground and began to cry uncontrollably.

"Jesus, Doyle," Flynn kneeled down next to his friend. "I know you put all the blame on yourself, but you don't deserve any of it. You didn't kill him, the infected did. You did the best you could to help him."

Doyle stayed silent.

"Hey," Flynn laughed as he sat down on the floor. "Remember that fishing trip back in basic?"

"Yeah."

"We went out there for hours just relaxing and Damion fell into the freakin' water for no damn reason."

Doyle laughed. "I know. We couldn't figure it out. And he never did tell me how he managed to."

"I'd like to think he always knew what he was doing. What he was getting into."

Thinking of that made Doyle calm down. He sniffed and wiped the tears from his cheeks. "Thanks, Flynn."

"No problem. Just promise me you get a good night's rest tonight. We're going out again tomorrow."

"Alright."

Flynn left the room. Doyle got up and got to his quarters in a commandeered hotel nearby. He fell asleep early. Only good dreams for the rest of the night.

--

Intelligence informed Flynn and his sniper group that time would be a bit limited on this next assignment. Satellite photos showed a group of around twenty infected emerging from the woods of a nearby town. It wouldn't have been a problem, except for the town's residents had just been given the all-clear order to return to their homes.

"We got about an hour and a half at most before they reach the population," Flynn explained to Doyle on their way to the helicopter. "It'll take me an hour to get there, so you better be freakin' Rambo once we get there."

"Right on," Doyle turned to the other riflemen. "Did you all get that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, sir."

"Outstanding. Let's go save some people."

--

"There they are!" Flynn pointed out to the left. "Damn, there are more than the pictures showed."

"S'all right, we brought enough bullets," Doyle signaled to the group and they assumed their positions like the day before. Danny next to Doyle while Zach and George took the other side.

The helicopter dipped to the left and made a pass over the rather large mob of infected. Their screams and hisses could be heard as they did. Flynn then moved the chopper so that they were moving parallel with the mob. He talked into the radio. "Attention, Wal-Mart shoppers, we have clearance in aisle four."

"Take your shots, men," Doyle shouted out. "No aimin' for the crotch today. One shot kills, that's what I need to see here."

Bullets began to fly down towards the group. Many were dropping while others kept on running even with shots through the head.

As the chopper neared the town, they could hear the air raid sirens blaring to warn the citizens of the sick visitors.

"Easy as pie, sir," Danny spoke up.

"That's what I like to hear, Private," Doyle looked through his scope and nearly fainted at what he saw. He pulled his head back to shake away the image, but looked back through to confirm the sight. Two of the people in the group looked strangely familiar. After looking past the blood coming from their eyes and mouth, Doyle found that he was looking at some old friends. Damion and Dana were running side-by-side towards the city.

"Damn it," Doyle said to himself. His mind was scrambled for that one instant. Not sure of what he should do. What were the odds? He always told himself that they had died that night at the outpost or at Manhattan. Somehow they had survived both and out of all the assignments, he found himself with this group. "What are the odds?"

Flynn noticed Doyle holding back on firing. He lifted up his microphone. "Doyle, something the matter?"

Doyle's expression remained blank.

"Doyle?"

"Yeah…What?" He shook his head to wake up.

"What's up?" Flynn looked back towards his friend.

Doyle's expression ran firm. He lifted up his rifle and fired two shots out the door. Two bodies fell below.

"Nothing, bud. Nothing at all," Doyle answered.

Flynn hesitantly went back to his controls.

The group continued to fire away at the infected until none were left standing.

--

At debriefing, Doyle didn't mention what he saw or what he did. Flynn didn't need to know. He made his way back to the hotel. Hummers and guards were still at the entrance. At his room, he melted away in a cold shower.

He seemed it odd that he wasn't feeling guilty in any way. If anything, it seemed like he had held his friends. Peace of mercy. What made them who they were was wiped out by the virus. He could see it in their eyes. Their awful, red eyes.

He didn't really kill them. It was the virus. He was granting them mercy...He continued to think this until sleep came to him...


	6. Week 11: Occupation

* * *

"Homecoming"

Chapter Six - Week 11: Occupation

* * *

The United States aircraft carrier sat in the English Channel just a few miles from the shores of Britain. The sea was harsh and the skies almost black, even as the sun hovered directly over head. As a helicopter landed on the deck, Doyle stormed up the staircase to the bridge. The general could hear his footsteps before he even entered the room.

"Sergeant Doyle," General Stone saluted.

Doyle didn't salute back. "Can I have a word, holiness?"

The other men on the bridge batted an eye. "Of course, Sergeant," Stone replied happily and led Doyle into his private quarters. He shut the door. "I don't know who you think you are speaking to me like that on my own bridge. You're practically a hero around here, so there are some things I can tolerate. But don't you ever speak to me like that again in the company of others or I swear I'll keel haul you."

"Whatever, Stone," Doyle shrugged off the threats. "How come most of the men have no idea what happened?"

"Have you told them anything?"

"Not yet, but I'm about one minute away from doing so."

"Doyle," Stone grinned nervously. "Most of these men, a majority actually, were overseas when the outbreak happened. We were short-staffed before we even left harbor, so we need all the men we can get. They don't need to know that the east coast was practically destroyed from within. I need their minds on the now."

"So…let me get this straight…You pull these men and women from their tour of duty without telling them a thing about what happened and now you're gonna throw them into all of this?"

"They'll know in due time. Just not now."

"They think that Britain is the only place it happened. They think we quarantined the island. That it was an isolated incident."

"I know this," Stone replied.

"This is sick, Stone. Even for you, this is sick. They're gonna find out," Doyle said.

"There are only a few on this boat who know what happened. They know what will happen if word gets out, as do you. There would be mutiny. Panic. Everything you can think of. So, if you want that, then tell them. Or, you can keep them in the dark just a while longer."

Doyle pushed is way out of the room and marched back down the stairs.

--

"Doyle! Hey, buddy!" Flynn found Doyle in the cafeteria.

"What do you want from me?"

"What? Come on, I don't need anything. Just wanted to see what my bestest friend in the whole wide world was up to," Flynn smiled widely.

Doyle didn't seem amused.

"Alright," Flynn dropped the charade and got serious, "I need your help."

"With what?"

"Just brought in some survivors from the mainland. They're going through decontamination right now and I need you to get them set up here for a while. They're getting shipped out of a camp in France in a while, but until then…"

"Yeah, I'll get them processed and put into a cabin."

"Thanks. I would have missed my flight otherwise. Another survivor run."

"Right, don't worry about it," Doyle took a bite of some jello.

"Thanks, man. I owe you one," Flynn started to walk off.

"I'm a sergeant, ya know," Doyle called after him.

"And I got a hundred on my science final in high school. Cry me a river," Flynn laughed as he walked into a corridor.

--

In the ship's meeting room, Doyle set up a stack of forms that were supposed to be filled out with each new entry into the carrier. He found it rather startling that people had survived this long on the mainland. From what he had been told, the infected on the island had died of starvation about a month ago. They were finding some that were still alive, but in no condition do to anything else but breathe. This was before they were shot.

The hatch into the room swung open. An officer motioned for the group to enter the room. "You'll be processed here," he said.

A man and woman, both looked to be in their twenties, and a young-girl entered.

"Come on in and have a seat," Doyle said in a cheery disposition. The three survivors sat down on the other side of the desk. "Can I get your names?"

"Jim," the man spoke up.

"Selena," the woman said.

"Hannah," the girl said.

"Okay. Just needed to see if I had the right paperwork here," Doyle fumbled with the stack. "You'll have to forgive me, paperwork was never my thing."

"Not a problem," Jim said. "Just…glad to be off that rock."

"Got pretty bad over there, huh?"

"Yeah, it did," Selena looked over at Hannah.

Doyle pointed his pen towards Hannah. "Are you two her parents?"

"No," Jim seemed sad at the thought. "Guardians, I suppose."

"I understand," Doyle began to scribble a bunch of information down on the various papers. "No need to talk about it anymore. You're all set here. I'll take you down to your cabins and after that you have unlimited access to our facilities. Cafeteria and otherwise. We have a McDonalds and a Starbucks down there among other things and it's all free."

Hannah smiled at this. "No more canned food."

"Thank you," Jim held out his hand and Doyle shook it.

"The name's Jeremy Doyle. If you ever need anything, find me. Alright? But I don't think I can stop them from shipping you off to France."

"France?" Selena raised an eyebrow. "Maybe it would be better if they dropped us back in London, eh?"

"I hear ya," Doyle said as he sat up and began to lead them to their cabins.

--

Hannah came back to the table with a giant salad and a mocha from the Starbucks. Jim and Selena came back with trays filled with fresh fruits, vegetables and cheeseburgers from McDonalds.

"Finally got your cheeseburgers, eh, Jim?" Hannah said, smiling at the small stack of burgers.

"They were worth waiting for," Jim ripped off the wrapper to one and took a large bite while Selena started on a pear.

Doyle sat down with four bottles of root beer. He handed them to the three visitors.

"Thanks," Hannah said politely.

"You're very welcome," Doyle cracked open his bottle and took a drink. As much as he wanted to swap horror stories with the three, as of now the whole outbreak back at the States didn't happen. "So, how long were you guys out there?"

"'Bout two months," Selena replied. "Jim here slept most of it off."

Jim laughed. "Yeah, well, it wasn't my fault."

"What happened?" Doyle asked.

"Couldn't quite tell ya," Jim took another bite. "Was delivering a package and the next thing I know…well, it had been about a month after the infection started spreading. Woke up, no one in the hospital. I'd like to thank the nurse who locked me inside my room and slipped the key under the door."

"Jesus," Doyle sighed. "That's going above and beyond the call of duty, for sure."

"Yeah," Jim tore into another burger.

"Mr. Doyle," Selena spoke up.

"Yeah, miss?"

"What took the chopper so long to get to us? It must have been nearly three weeks since we saw the plane pass overhead."

"I'll have to apologize on behalf of the country of Finland for that," Doyle laughed. "They've been sending scout planes out over Britain for a while. All of their choppers have been preoccupied with the refugee camps. Once we got involved over here, they sent us the locations of survivors."

"Are there any others?" Hannah asked.

"Not at the moment. No," Doyle replied. "Actually, my friend piloted the chopper that brought you three in. He's out again to scout another location."

"Ah," Selena expressed her understanding. "So how did you blokes fair?"

"Excuse me?" Doyle raised an eyebrow.

"I had heard over the tele that the infection spread to New York. Is it worse over there?"

Doyle wanted to march back up the stairs and throw Stone overboard. The things these people have gone through…Now he had to lie right to their faces. It was a messed up situation and he wished dearly that he wasn't a part of it.

"It didn't actually spread over there," Doyle lied through his teeth. "A few refugees, but nothing spread beyond containment."

"Lucky yanks," Jim shook his head.

"Yeah," Doyle stared off into the distance. "Yeah, lucky us."


	7. Week 18: Decontamination

* * *

"Homecoming"

Chapter Seven - Week 18: Decontamination

* * *

NATO forces had been patrolling Britain on foot for nearly a month now. There was never any commotion greater than an engine starting or a helicopter hovering overhead. The streets were barren, as if the people had just picked up and left. But the starved bodies told a different story. 

The infected had died of starvation five weeks after the initial outbreak, but no one was taking any chances. The military scientists still couldn't paint a clear picture of how the virus spread so quickly. Whether or not it could cross species or become airborne was still a mystery. So, everyone on the ground was fully armed with assault rifles and biohazard suits; and before any units left the quarantine zones, they had to be sterilized. Inoculations and disinfectants were mandatory upon departure and reentry.

Doyle had gone out with the "Decon" units almost every day since NATO established a presence on the ground. He hated being cooped up for very long after his extended stays at the base and on the carrier. Only the conversations with Jim, Selena and Hannah kept his sanity in check, but their departure to France made things difficult for some time.

"Promise you'll visit us in ol' Pairee," Jim embraced Doyle as they stood on the landing deck of the carrier.

"Yeah, man, I'll be right behind you," Doyle slapped Jim on the back and turned to hug Selena. "Send me a croissant when you get the chance."

"Will do," Selena said, wiping a tear from her eye.

Hannah stood on her tippy-toes and kissed Doyle on the cheek.

The four of them had grown close. The British survivors knew nothing of Doyle's encounter with the infected, but they could sense in him what they sensed in eachother. An emptiness of loss.

Flynn threw a waved through the front window of the chopper as he pulled back on the controls. The chopper ascended into the air and fell into the horizon.

Presently, Doyle let his legs dangle off of the examining table. He kicked them into the air like a toddler waiting for his mom. This routine had become an annoyance to him. Partially because it delayed him from getting out into the field, and partially because he had taken his gas mask off several times for some fresh air and was always given a clean bill of health upon his return. Not that he would ever make any of the medical officers privy to this fact. He could surely be kept in the quarantine zones permanently if he did.

The door clicked open and Doyle began to roll up his sleeve.

"Running a bit late, are we, doctor," Doyle hated his doctor. He always came in late and jabbed the inoculations into Doyle's arms as if he was trying to see if he could get the needle all the way through to the other side.

"I apologize," a woman's voice spoke up.

Out of complete disorientation, Doyle looked over to see where the voice came from. His mind short-circuited. He was staring at Dana. The visions of her final seconds raced back to mind. Her screams for help felt as real as they did all those months ago. He wanted to cry and yell and chase the pain away.

Stop, that's not Dana. He finally came to his senses. The woman noticed his discontent.

"Are you alright, Sergeant?" she placed a concerned hand on Doyle's shoulder.

"Yeah," he took a deep breath. "Sorry, I thought you were…someone else."

"Oh, I'm very sorry. I guess that's two strikes for me," she laughed.

"You're not my usual doctor. Miss…"

"Major Scarlett Ross," she held out her hand and Doyle shook it.

"Miss Ross. Not that I'm not thrilled by the other guy's absence."

"He's getting sent up the creek for malpractice," Ross put on a set of sterile rubber gloves.

"Awesome," was all that he could say. This was the happiest he had been for a while.

"I take it he wasn't the most pleasant of folk," she pulled out a set of syringes.

"To put it lightly, I wanted him dead."

Ross snorted as she laughed. Her cheeks blushed red and she held her hand over her nose. "Excuse me."

"I won't tell," he didn't even feel the needles entering his arm. "So what do you do for a living?"

The doctor snickered again. "Well," she said, playing along, "I had been planning to do something in the field of medicine."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that," Doyle mocked seriousness.

"And why not?" Ross plunged another needle into Doyle's arm.

"They make you tend to unruly patients and make you wear those shitty rubber gloves all day."

"Yeah, those unruly patients can be a pain, huh?" she finished up with the injections.

"Totally. Pains in the asses. You shouldn't have anything to do with them."

"I'll keep that in mind," Ross pulled off her rubber gloves and stuck them in a trash can. "You're all set, Sergeant."

"Doyle," he corrected. "Don't let the superior rank intimidate you. I'm a teddy bear."

"I bet," Ross waved goodbye. "Take care now."

Doyle backed up to the door. "Let's do this again sometime. I'm gonna catch a flu and I'll be right back."

Ross only smiled. The next day, she would be transferred to the high security sector of the quarantine zone.

Doyle wouldn't see her again for quite some time.

--

The majority of the time spent outside quarantine was at the Isle of Dogs. That was the primary objective: to clear the place out and set up camp there. This day, Doyle's group was given permission to cross the river and search the surrounding structures for anything out of the ordinary.

The routine was to search the building for bodies. If any were found, the soldiers were to immediately exit and spraypaint a giant biohazard sign on the front of the structure so that it could be easily seen. Eventually, they would sweep the entire city and destroy the infected corpses, but one step at a time for now.

At the top floor of a corner-street café, Doyle removed his gas mask. The air shot up through his nostrils and cause a sigh of relief. He snuck over to the windows and cracked them open. Dust exploded off of the windowsills as the wind came rushing in. Not a bad view, he thought. He had a clear picture of the end of the street and some of the river from where he stood.

"What the hell are you doing, Sarge?" a man in a biohazard suit walked up the stairs. "Am I gonna have to report this?"

"Am I gonna have to shoot you?" Doyle didn't break his eyes off of the view.

"Zipping the trap, Sarge," the soldier made a zipping motion across the mask. "How's the view?"

"It's nice. Real nice," Doyle stood up to face the soldier in the suit. "Did any of the other patrols have any luck?"

"None, sir. The city's dead. Sure, we found some bodies, but that's not really news."

"Alright, let's just cut this trip short then. Tired of being out here already," Doyle replaced his gas mask and followed the soldier. "You're Alvarez, right?"

"Yeah, Sarge," Alvarez replied.

"Just makin' sure."

The two stomped onto the wooden landing. Various tea cups lay shattered on the floor while others were still neatly arranged on the shelves. The food in the glass pantry had gone bad, covered in green moss and sludge.

"Nasty," Alvarez pointed out. "A coffee sounds real good. You know how British are all particular about their teas and stuff."

"I didn't."

"Oh, yeah. Watched it on the Food Network all the time at home. Wasn't like no Starbucks, it was the good stuff here."

"Alright," Doyle was tuning his partner's voice out of his head. He gave a simple "uh-huh" whenever he heard the chatter stop.

"Yeah," his covered head tilted to the side. "Maybe they have that powdered stuff that lasts for a long time. Might be the last time we'll ever get to try it."

"They won't let you bring that stuff back through quarantine."

"I know the guy at the gate. He'll let a bag of coffee slip through…" Alvarez fell silent for a few moments. "Hey, Sarge," he called out.

Doyle turned around and walked behind the counter to find the man bent over a trap door.

"Where do ya reckon it leads?" Alvarez fumbled with it, trying to get it open.

"We might as well check it out. Maybe we'll find your coffee down there," he made sure his gun was cocked.

"That'd be swell," Alvarez pushed his finger through a small knot hole and pulled up on the board. A small, wooden ladder stretched six feet down into the hole.

"I'll go first," Doyle pushed his partner aside and descended into the hole, darkness closing in around him. He looked around and saw a small beam of light on the other end of a small tunnel.

Following a signal from Doyle, Alvarez followed suit. They stood side by side in the small passage. As they inched closer to the source of the light, a horrid stench began to permeate through the air. Doyle tightened his gas mask onto his face tighter and pressed on.

At the end of the tunnel, they found a plywood door blocking their way to the light. Doyle gently pressed in on it and found a small chamber. The source of the light was a small candle in the middle of the floor.

"He 'ast to eat," they heard a screeching voice. The two soldiers looked about and found an old woman sitting in a rocking chair. She was moving up and down in the chair and knitting something with yarn. The product had no shape or form, but it stretched onto the floor was wrapped up into a ball at the end.

"Ma'am?" Doyle's voice echoed through the chamber. His voice awoke something in the chamber. A horrible sounding scream and a series of hisses and coughs bombarded their ears.

"Ye woke 'em up!" the woman scolded and ran to the other end of the chamber.

"Jesus Christ!" Alvarez took a step back.

A boy lay on a nearby bed. His arms and legs were chained to the bedrails and foam was spewing from his mouth. His head shook violently and he continued screaming. Doyle noticed the red tint in his eyes and the mass piles of empty cans next to the bed. The woman had been keeping the boy alive.

"He's infected," that was all that Doyle had to say to make Alvarez understand the situation. They raised their rifles at the boy.

"No! Don't you hurt 'em! He's sickly, that's all. He's just sick an' needs his mama," she leaned over and kissed the infected boy's forehead.

"Step away from his, ma'am. Now," Doyle ordered.

Before Doyle could talk to the woman further, Alvarez let out a panic shot. The bullet hit its mark straight on. The boy came to peace.

"No!" the woman shrieked. She flew quickly to the other side of the room and grabbed her knitting tool. She swing around and jabbed it into Alvarez's chest. He screamed and lurched forward in pain.

Doyle fired on the woman, her body flung to the other end of the chamber. It knocked over the candle as it did.

Alvarez, in a panic, ripped out the knitting tool from his chest, only causing him more pain.

Once Doyle had helped his partner up the ladder and out into the street, he called for a pick up back to base.

As Alvarez applied pressure to his wound, Doyle stood up and spray-painted the biohazard sign onto the side of the café.


	8. Week 24: Reconstruction

* * *

"Homecoming"

Chapter Eight - Week 24: Reconstruction

* * *

Brigadier General Stone gathered his soldiers in the courtyard of District One, against the backdrop of smoke rising from the burn piles and the commuter train on the distant rail, filled with refugees from nearby lands. 

He paced back and forth on the podium and made sure that everyone was aware of their duty. They were the "shepherds of rebirth" of Britain.

"Code Red," Stone began, "you have all been briefed on what that terms means, and its implications. We have already seen in the past that the infection we have strived to wipe clean from this country can so easily resurface." He looked out and found Doyle in the crowd. "That the threat may still be very real. But one thing is for certain: District One is free of infection. Dead or otherwise."

Doyle rested an arm on his sniper rifle. The speech bored him. Stone was looking for respect, and was finding it in most. Code Red destroyed all codes of honor and civilized solutions.

"If Code Red is ever put into order," Stone pressed on, "you are to tend to your posts and follow our instruction carefully. We cannot give you a set plan because the situations are subject to change, obviously. But we are hopeful that the infection will never resurface and that we can find peace throughout the lands of England in the coming years."

Firebombs, chemical weapons, aircraft and ground troops. Code Red was genius in the eyes of quarantine-supporters. Others saw no point. The thought of destroying so much so quickly on an isolated island, simply made so sense to some. Doyle fell within this demographic. It was too much for nothing.

"Go about your duties, and let us all live well in the days before us," Stone concluded to a symphony of applause from the soldiers.

--

The Isle of Dogs is surrounded on three sides by water. The remaining side was barricaded with high fences, trip sensors and razor wire. The train rails led from the living complex, out over the fence and to a nearby airport. The system was very accomplished, even Doyle could admit. Refugees would land on the tarmac, go through sterilization at the converted airport and would immediately be placed on the train. They hoped the barricades would be moved back, little by little as time passed.

The buildings surrounding the Isle of Dogs were beginning to look almost habitable. Graffiti concerning the end of the world and messages written on rooftops disappeared. Bodies were constantly being hauled out of the structures and sent to the burn piles to be disposed of.

Doyle emerged onto the roof of a building just behind the barricade. He looked around him and found other snipers setting up their perches, looking for any sign of disaster.

_"Got your sleeping bag over there, Doyle?"_ a voice came through his radio. He wound the receiver into his ear and clicked it on.

"Got my juice boxes too," Doyle heard laughter pouring in through the radio.

_"Shit, Doyle, you better share the wealth."_

"Not a chance," he looked through his scope and began to peer into the windows of the living complex. People were beginning to get their rooms set up, but most headed straight for the bathrooms. To shower, Doyle reasoned. The reputation that the refugee camps in other camps had were dismal at best.

Flynn's voice came in through the radio. _"How's the set-up, Doyle?"_

"Well, from up here I have an even better view of…nothing," Doyle was already bored. "You havin' fun flyin' around up there, family man?"

_"Never thought I'd be tired of flying. I forgot what the ground feels like,"_ Flynn laughed.

"It's boring. Get away as fast as you can," he continued to scan the windows. His scope settled on a window near the top floor of the complex. The doctor, Scarlett Ross, came into view. Doyle kept the rifle steady and he watched her. She's so beautiful, he said to himself.

_"Who is?" _Doyle had left the radio on.

"Your wife. She sent me a pin-up of her to keep with me always," Doyle replied. The other snipers on the channel erupted into static and settled down into laughter. He could see the nearest sniper slapping his knee as he laughed.

_"Ha ha, funny. I'ma land this chopper on your head."_

"Yeah, yeah. Get out of here and chase the birds away or something," Doyle clicked off the radio.

For many weeks, Doyle would spend the event-less days practicing speeches and phrases that he would say to Doctor Ross if he ever saw her. "Blood makes me nauseous," he said to himself. That'd be great.

He never did run into her. Not until that night four weeks later, when all of their worst fears came to light. When the infected poured out of the living complex and spread throughout the city.

Doyle had killed many that night, but he found one target in particular that froze up his trigger finger.

"He's not a target anymore," Doyle explained to Doctor Ross…


	9. 28 Weeks Later

* * *

28 Weeks Later…

* * *

"I'll see you there." 

For as long as he could, Doyle had kept the children alive during Code Red. For weeks he had told himself that he would follow through with the order, but it only took one look at the boy for him to change his mind.

He began to feel his throat burning. His eyes were stinging. The gas was so thick he couldn't even tell if the car was moving as he pushed it. Just a little bit longer, he told himself.

Faster and faster, he pressed on. Gathering the courage, Doyle looked up and through the glass. The two kids were looking at him. They were truly sad. It was a nice change of pace, he thought, for someone to care for him. To worry about him. It was real nice. Made all of this worth it.

He pounded on the window and shouted at Doctor Ross to pop the clutch. As much as he wanted to shout out how much he loved her, he couldn't, even now. Just before the engine turned over, he threw a wink at the boy. His little hands gripped the back seat and tears swelled in his eyes.

The car began to pull away through the fog.

Before the biohazard team "disinfected" him, he closed his eyes and tried to think back in his mind to a better time. The only memory he could pull up was his brief moment with the girl of his dreams, just before the infection had claimed her for itself. That night at the bar when she mouthed the words he so desperately believed were true.

Doyle felt the warmth of the fire behind him.

"I love you," he heard Dana whisper in his ear.

-THE END-


	10. Epilogue: In A Heartbeat

* * *

"Homecoming"

Epilogue - In A Heartbeat

* * *

Jim clenched the newspaper as he lay in the grass. Above him, the bright, blue sky was seeping through the beams of the Eiffel Tower. He used his other hand to block the brightness and to wipe away the tears. Recently, he had no reason to react this way. No reason at all. Things had been perfect and almost right in the world. 

The news had been spreading like wildfire. People traveled all the way to the English Channel to catch a glimpse of the smoke rising from the other side.

District One had been destroyed. Not by the infection, but by its very occupants. Three survivors, the paper read. Only a helicopter pilot and two children escaped death by the hands of the ruthless Brigadier General Stone.

"He better not show his face outside that island," a man conversed with his wife in passing. "The firing squad would have their day with him."

General Stone would become synonymous with death itself. His actions in enacting the almost laughable terms of Code Red caused rage and despair wherever they reached ears.

"Bastard," Jim muttered, letting the wind catch the paper and take it away into the distance.

Many weeks ago, Jim had barely escaped the infected with a woman named Selena and a girl, Hannah. They managed to find an emptied cottage in the country where they lived for nearly a month. A passing Finnish jet made their whereabouts known to NATO forces. Upon being rescued, they came into contact with a man that the three would get to know quite well.

Sergeant Jeremy Doyle, he introduced himself as such. For several weeks, they had grown close. The man had a look in his eye that seemed to communicate more than he was willing to tell.

Jim and Doyle would often relax in the aircraft carrier's bar and recap on their history. They found that talking came quite easily between the two of them.

"We're just lucky, I guess," Doyle had teased over a pint. "You know how we Americans are. Blast anything what squirts blood at you into oblivion."

"Seems effective from here," Jim said, taking a drink. "I just can't believe how it didn't spread to the US. Selena was telling me how it was all over the news for a time."

"They're not very good swimmers. Mostly all they can do is scream and bite…from what I hear anyways."

"Yeah, there's a bit more to 'em than that, but I guess that's the most of it."

Doyle stared off into the distance. His eye twitched as if he was surprised by something.

"You alright, Doyle?" Jim asked. "Something bite you?"

"Yeah," Doyle said in a very blank tone of voice. "I mean, no."

"What?"

"Nothing," the sergeant buried his face into the beer glass.

That was the way he acted every time they drank. Something would pop up in Doyle's mind that sent him into a type of flashback.

Jim thought this was strange and began asking around the ship to see if something had happened to his friend in the past.

"Couldn't tell ya," a soldier would say. "Just met the guy. Been overseas for about a year now."

"He seems like a cool guy," another said. "Doesn't seem like someone that would let his past affect him."

"Been overseas. So, I don't really know Doyle all too well."

Jim found it equally strange that almost every member of the crew had been overseas before being redeployed to Britain to assist in the quarantine. He found it a bit disturbing, actually.

But, his fears were laid to rest when he caught up with an old friend of Doyle's.

"Nothing really spectacular ever happened," Flynn said. "Nothing that would get Doyle all freaked out."

"Yeah, but he's really going through something," Jim explained. "When he starts drinking then he can't stay focused for more than a minute."

"Well, I'm sure all of the soldiers who have a few too many will have similar symptoms. It's often referred to as 'being drunk off your ass'."

"He's not telling me something or _you're_ not telling me something. The man has been nothing but kind to me and my friends since we got on this boat. I want to help him if I can."

Flynn all of the sudden turned very serious. His voice was cold and unforgiving.

"You're digging a bit too deep here, son," he said. "Let things be. You've seen what's out there, but we've seen worse. Don't go mouthing off to the wrong person or you might be on this ship for a very long time. You and your companions." He turned and walked away, leaving Jim with a sick feeling inside.

For the remainder of his stay aboard the carrier, Jim watched his friend mentally self-destruct. Only it wasn't happening over a drink now, it was at random times. Doyle would stop in mid-step, prop himself against the corridor wall and get red-eyed.

"You all right, Doyle?" Jim asked.

"I think I got me some food poisoning." He wiped his tears away. "Damn McDonalds food. Am I right or am I right?"

Jim smiled weakly.

On the day of their departure, Jim, Selena and Hannah said their goodbyes to all of the people they had come to know and love. On the flight deck, Doyle awaited the arrival of the trio. He was leaned up against the helicopter talking to Flynn.

"Got tired of floatin' around with us, huh?" Doyle reached out and shook Jim's hand.

Jim laughed. "Trust me, rather be here than France. I can tell you that much."

Doyle walked over to Selena and hugged her. "You keep them out of trouble."

"So I guess I'm the mother now," Selena said.

"Just lock Hannah in a closet whenever she gets fussy, and you'll do fine."

Hannah giggled and embraced Doyle after Selena. "Thanks for taking care of us, Doyle."

"Don't thank me too much; I was serious about the closet."

The three waved through the window of the chopper as it hovered into the sky. Doyle stood on the helipad and watched them until they were safely on their way across the Channel.

Flynn turned towards the passengers and handed Jim a small envelope.

"He wanted me to give that to you!" he yelled over the propellers.

Jim reached up and took the envelope. He pulled up the flap and shook its contents out onto the palm of his hand.

"Dogtags," he said, moving them into better light to read the words.

Ever since that day, Jim wore those tags. He wasn't even quite sure why. All he knew was that there was something wrong with that soldier. Something terribly wrong. The two of them reacted the same to loud noises and people's coughs the same way. They both jumped as if something was about to attack them.

The way the infected did. Yet, Doyle constantly denied such an encounter. It annoyed Jim very much, and it destroyed him when he read the newspaper the told of the destruction of District One. Three survivors, it said. That meant the secret of Sergeant Jeremy Doyle's past may have died with him.

"Bastards," Jim repeated.

"How are you fairing?" Selena's voice made a whisper behind him. She sat down on the grass. "I read the papers this morning."

"Yeah? Then you know what that means?" Jim asked.

"He was a dear friend to all of us. Hannah just won't stop crying in her room."

"The worst of it is," he began to rant, "is that it wasn't the bloody infected." A few pedestrians turned their head at the sound of the word. "It was us! Normal, intelligent, rational English speaking people. Not some mindless freaks of nature."

"Calm down, Jim."

"It's just…" he took a breath and calmed down. "…it's all fucked."

"I know," Selena said, trying to comfort her friend.

From across the lawn, three men in suits and a man in a military uniform approached Jim and Selena. Right away, they recognized the uniformed man.

"Flynn," Jim stood up to meet the group.

Flynn nodded gravely. The past incident obviously still fresh in his mind.

"Jim. Selena," he acknowledged the two, but his expression still seemed blank. "I remembered that you and yours were shipped over here. Wanted to see if I could find you before I leave for the States."

"Then Doyle's dead," Jim said, knowing what Flynn's presence meant.

Flynn bit his lip and held back the emotions.

"Yes," he said. "The biohazard group of District One confirmed the kill.—It was Code Red, so anything and everything that moved had to be taken out. That was how…"

"I understand," Jim interrupted to save Flynn from finishing the sentence.

"There were two survivors other than myself," Flynn sighed. "A brother and sister. They were the last to see Doyle alive. If you want, you can accompany these men," he motioned to the suits, "and they'll take you to meet them."

--

"Where's my sister?" Andy shot a look of defiance at the nurse.

The nurse grew impatient, and responded in her thick French accent. "They've taken her to a different lab for decontamination."

"She doesn't _need_ decontamination!" he was frustrated now. "I was the one who got bit, not her."

"Sweetie, you couldn't have been bitten," she picked up a scope and looked into the boy's eyes. Upon examination, she noticed the different colored irises and the red discoloration around them. "Did you come into contact with any hazardous materials? Anything that would make your eyes irritated?"

Andy rolled his eyes. "They put that smoke out in the streets."

"Who did?"

"Those army guys. The ones that killed Doyle."

"Ah," the nurse realized what had happened. "You must have gotten a small dose of the chemical weaponry they implemented."

The doctor, a tall man with a thick moustache, walked into the room. He asked the nurse if she found anything.

"Avez-vous trouvé quelque chose?"

"Non," she said. "Mais ses yeux sont irrités du contaminant biologique."

"I see," the doctor had a perfect English accent. "Well, young man, the worst you might get from us is a vaccine and a glass of water." He smiled.

"I want to see Tam," Andy demanded.

"I believe she's already been let go," the doctor reassured his patient. "When you're through here, I'll arrange transport personally. Won't be more than an hour, I promise."

The doctor pulled a small wooden instrument from a drawer that resembled a large popsicle stick to the boy.

"Open your mouth and say 'Ah'," he requested. The boy opened his mouth wide and the doctor moved in close so see if there was any sort of infection in his throat.

"Now, I need you to cough for me."

Andy did so. A tiny drop of saliva flicked into the doctor's eye.

"Ouch," he said in reflex.

"Êtes-vous bien, docteur?" the nurse asked.

"Yes, yes. I'm alright," he said, rubbing his eye. "Okay, now open wide again because I couldn't quite…"

The doctor began to rub his eye again. With every passing second the rubbing intensified. He began to shout out in agony.

"Docteur?" asked the nurse, weakly.

The man continued to rub his eye frantically until blood began to drip down his hand…


	11. Closing Notes

_Edit: 12/24/07 - Couldn't get the story arc for "The Unforgiven" down, so I tacked that singular chapter onto the end of "Homecoming" to let it just lead off into the end of the movie. So, I apologize for not being able to finish that story. (I just don't know enough about France to keep it going successfully.) Also wanted to take this opportunity to thank those who have endured the many typos and read this fic! D_

Wow. Can't believe it got finished. I really can't. It's been a wild ride, I guess you could say.

The whole thing started after I watched "28 Weeks Later" on opening day. I had watched its predecessor several times over and had reservations that the sequel, minus its original cast, would just sit there and fail to amuse me in the theater. After being awestruck, I vented my rage concerning the death of my favorite character into this prequel. Very much like I did with my fic "Drive" after watching the last episode of "Firefly" on DVD. (Serenity needed to fly again, in my mind.)

I wished Doyle had survived the whole ordeal, or at least been used a bit more. But, obviously, it isn't going to happen. Sad, really.

So, here's the end of the story. I am very proud of it and had a lot of fun writing it. Too much fun. Now comes the time to fix all of the errors and stuff like that to make it more streamlined, but, for now, it's finished. Bummer.

Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read this and continue to leave reviews for it. Especially Stranded, who left a review almost every step of the way, and saved me from not using Scarlett Ross at all in the story. It was that one look that Doyle gave Ross through his scope that I completely missed, lol.

Thanks again, and I hope that I didn't make any stupid mistakes with the story. There was only one way it could end.

-knight

**p.s. - Don't forget to review. It _really_ helps me out. :)**


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